Game Over' or 'Mostly the Mask'
by cadenza
Summary: Talyn is nearing the rendez-vous point with Moya, after Choice and at start of Fractures. Aeryn is packing John's things - yeah a angst-ridden shippy fic - no excuse but maybe reflects my 'doom 'n' gloom' mood. Anyway my attempt to fill in a storyline gap


Game Over   
  
or Mostly The Mask...  
  
Dedication: for beeb board shippers and ficcers! lol  
  
Acknowledgements/disclaimer: the fs characters aren't mine, they belong to that nice Mr Henson and his friends, but I think I can safely promise that I won't make any money out of this.  
  
Waffly bit: (apols for a bit of artistic license cos I now seem to remember Stark gave the mask to Rygel. Yes? Unfortunately this only occurred to me when it was too late - okay - when I was in too far to face a rewrite. Maybe later when fsw is really bad I'll do another version with Rygel and Crais. That pink gloop gotta have some comic potential and Crais taking a pasting has got to be fun)  
  
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Time/Place: Talyn is nearing the rendez-vous point with Moya, after The Choice and at the start of Fractures.  
  
  
Aeryn is packing John's things piled up on the bed, their bed...she's not crying but she's pale, still a bit red-eyed and more than a little bit cranky. Crais has been given short shrift i.e. a deliberate near miss with a pulse rifle immediately followed up with a low kick towards the more vulnerable regions of his anatomy. He has strategically retreated to Command. Rygel, dismissed with a very large naknak* in his ear, has sought the safety of the galley to eat (what else!). Stark, well, who worries where Stark is...  
  
-------------  
  
Almost done.  
  
Aeryn tucked the notebook down the side of the large black holdall so it wouldn't get too battered in transit. Her eyes twinkled and the corners of her mouth briefly relaxed as she recalled John's delight at her hopeless attempts to read the strange symbols scribbled in it. Her face closed again as she wondered why she now took such care with it.  
  
This was proving harder than she'd thought. Perhaps she should've let one of the others do it. Somewhat surprisingly, Crais had offered. She grinned at the memory of his awkward efforts to try to explain his actions back on the planet and his blazingly obvious desire to reach out to her, to make amends. Perhaps she should have let him.  
  
No.  
  
This was a good test of her resolve. John was dead. Her reluctance to pack and part with his things was just foolish indulgence, indulgence she could no longer afford. They were nearing the agreed rendez-vous point and she had to be strong. The choice was made.  
  
She reached across and picked up one of the few items still to be packed: John's leather coat, his favourite coat. He'd looked frelling gorgeous in that coat. She held it up and surveyed it. There was little sign of damage. She pictured John, smiling and proud, the first time he'd worn it. She pictured him wearing it that horrid day they'd set out to find Furlow. Gods, what she wouldn't do to that woman if she ever ran into her again. Her lips trembled, but she pressed them tightly together and began folding the coat. She stopped. She unfurled it again and crushed it against her body. She wrapped her arms around it, buried her head into its folds and inhaled deeply. His scent was still there. John was still there. Just.  
  
She raised her head, blinked, and took a deep breath. This really wouldn't do.  
  
A slight movement by the door caught her eye.  
  
Stark was hovering...Dren. How long had he been there?  
  
  
"Go away. Leave me alone Stark."  
  
"I was just coming to see if you were alright"  
  
"I am. Now go away."  
  
"Aeryn?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Aeryn, I know you feel pain right now, and I know you want to be alone but I must give you something before I go."  
  
  
Aeryn sighed.  
  
This persistent concern by the three of them was going to drive her farbot. They were nearly as bad as John. She caught her breath. First Crais with his 'I know it seems hard now' speech. Then Rygel, tempting her to eat with some weird hynerian delicacy to try. Cholak alone knew where he'd managed to pick up whatever that pink gloop was supposed to be. Whatever it was, eating it, even if it did get rid of him, had been a big mistake. She was now left feeling faintly sick and in no mood for more visitors. What did Stark want? How many times did she have to tell them to leave her the frell alone?  
  
She bundled the coat into a ball and stuffed it into the holdall. In its place she picked up Winona, feeling its easy balance in her hand. She pointed it at Stark.  
  
  
"Well? What's your pitch?"  
  
"Pitch? I don't understand."  
  
  
Aeryn sighed again. She had been doing a lot of that lately. Stark was irritating, slightly creepy and definitely more than a little odd, but he probably didn't deserve to be blasted to oblivion. Could he be blasted to oblivion? Zhaan had obviously seen something in him, although for the life of her, she couldn't see what. Stark had cried for Zhaan. Zhaan had died for her, for John. She swallowed and bit her lip.  
  
  
"Aeryn? Please don't point that gun at me."  
  
She looked at him, lowered, but did not let go of the gun. She sat on the bed facing him.  
  
Stark took a couple of tentative steps into the room. Balanced on the balls of his feet he looked ready to run, duck or dive depending on her reaction. He seemed to know that this was one wound up lady running on a very short fuse.  
  
Aeryn did nothing. She said nothing.  
  
He stepped further into the room.  
  
"I need to give you this."  
  
Stark unbuttoned the clasps on his mask and pulled it away from his head. Light streamed from the side of his face making strange shapes flicker across Talyn's walls. He held out the mask.  
  
Aeryn did not move. She couldn't. It wasn't just the knowledge of what it meant to Stark, giving her his mask, that held her back. John had asked for a few moments with Stark before the end. She didn't know what for, didn't give a dren why, but, now, here was Stark handing her what held him together, and asking her to take it. She felt uneasy. It felt wrong.  
  
"Crichton, John," his voice grew softer, "he wanted the other John to have it. It's important".  
  
It was too much. It was, frell, to take the mask was to accept John was gone. But she knew he was. Hadn't she'd cried enough? It was over. If she took it she was making a tacit agreement to be part of the future, a part of the other John's future. The idea petrified her. She couldn't do it, wouldn't do it. She'd made her decision. It felt like someone was crushing her chest and there was this pain, this ache in her body, that wouldn't go away. She wanted to throw up.  
  
Stark gently placed the mask in her lap. She looked at it and, raising her eyes, looked at him.  
  
Stark stood smiling at her.  
  
"He was a good man. He is a good man."  
  
Aeryn remained silent.  
  
"Would you like me to give you something to help you?" he asked.  
  
She shook her head.  
  
He nodded and turned to go.  
  
"Stark!"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why? Why what? Why the mask? Why did he die? Why didn't I? Why him? Why me? Why this? Why that? Don't ask questions Aeryn Sun. There are no answers now. Only life."  
  
Her fingers tightened round the pulse pistol's trigger and she wondered if she shouldn't shoot him anyway. She wanted to scream at him, hit him until that sanctimonious face was replaced with a bloody, unrecognisable pulp. But what was the point? What difference would it make? Stark wasn't to blame.  
  
"Go be with Zhaan, Stark."  
  
Stark, possibly realising his narrow escape or maybe keen to begin his journey, turned and scurried away.  
  
Alone again, Aeryn sat unmoving, staring at the wall. She picked up the mask and held it in both hands until, slowly, her face crumpled. She fell sideways, back on to the bed, drawing up her legs and clutching the mask to her. Her resolve exhausted, she let go and her body was once again racked with slow, painful sobs.  
  
Time passed and her cries grew quieter and less insistent, until finally, she was quiet. She lay uninterrupted in a reverie of what was and what might've been.  
  
She drifted into sleep. For the first time since John Crichton had died she lay calm, undisturbed by the visions that had taken to stalking her thoughts awake or asleep. She was free from the dreams where, over and over again, taunted and rejected by her parents, the Peacekeepers, her lovers, by everyone, she chose to kill them all; her father, her mother, pilot, Velorack, John. All dead by her hand. Now, finally, her mind let her go. Her body relaxed.  
  
Held tight against her, the mask gave out a faint yellow corona of light that seemed to creep around, and caress, her body.  
  
Crais' voice boomed over the comms, "Moya's in range. We should be there in less than a half arn."  
  
Aeryn woke with a start. Reality returned with a gut wrenching thud. Her mind froze while her stomach did `loop the loop'.  
  
Pushing herself off the bed, she stood up, squared her shoulders and gave an imaginary interloper a `wanna make something of it?,' glare. She was peacekeeper trained. She was strong. She could cope. She could do this.  
  
Still holding the mask Aeryn made her way to Command.  
  
And cue her entrance in Fractures...  
  
And you'll have to wait for the post script explanation as to how Crais came to carry John's bag off Talyn (at least I think he did).  
  
*(similar to Earth's black flea) 


End file.
